


Broken Gods and the Fury Road

by Apocalypse_Log



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Occasionally heavily sexual, Other, Violence, in progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apocalypse_Log/pseuds/Apocalypse_Log
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: They fell from the sky, shattering against a Mad Titan somewhere in the blackness of space - dead Gods with no world left to avenge.  This is a legend.  In the new world, one hard-made of radioactive dust and desperation, truth is no valued currency.  A lie might be better - but the one God that survived that day has none left to give.  Instead he's an enslaved prize worth more than gold, because his touch can create ice.</p><p>The water war is coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Gods and the Fury Road

**Author's Note:**

> Updates whenever it strikes me. And yes, the title is terrible.

The Avengers: Broken Gods on the Fury Road

 

_1\. The Watcher at the End_

. . .

_This world is fire and blood, when once it held life and hope and miracles. When the Gods fell from the sky in a war neither side won, each of us in our own way was broken._

_First to fall was the man of iron; the scarlet Icarus. His chest was torn open by the Titan's monsters and, so they say, Star Wormwood itself boiled out of his heart. The chained force that was his life became the catalyst that destroyed almost everyone else's. The white-fire element became unstable in the air over the continent without the iron man to control it; its atomic structure ruined by the war above. The stories say the world panicked in response and tried to stop its fire with their own._

_The result was the Wasteland._

_The second God to fall crumbled to the land somewhere in the dead heart of the continent, dragged down by steel and chased by the roar of destructive thunder. And then, silence. Silence. To me, it sounded like a scream. There would be no more clean rain to fall, no more gifts from a god of storms._

_The result was a crater, so deep in the heart of the continent that no one can go there and hope to survive the journey. But men try, drawn by the lure of treasure and a meteorite's gift. Something to bring the feudal lords springing up, to curry favor and to buy a place of safety behind the walls of those stronger. And they die._

_The third God to fall was the machine man, the one with an aspect of infinity itself placed high on his brow. More human than human, and unsurpassed was his vision. The light was torn from him and consumed, and his pieces scattered across the ocean._

_The result was the knowledge that hope had died. In him had been curated the collected information of all of this world. All of it gone in the war and the flames._

_The rest of them simply fell, broken stars scattered to Earth. No one won. The skies grew black and knotted together, veiling us from whatever lay beyond. Years later, scant decades, that veil is there still. There would never be answers as to what happened, not even from those of us who watched._

_And I watched; high on my perch that might in a moment of mad whimsy have been a throne. I have all the stories – but perhaps not for long. It's hard to know who's more crazy now. Me, or everyone else. The things I know are becoming lost, pushed out by desperation and exhaustion._

_I see all the fallen Gods – once enemies, once family, forever lost – and they are worming their way into the black matter of my brain. They cannot touch me. They cannot save me. They are all dead._

_Once, I was a prince; a righteous lord in search of a firm place to stand and rule. I am Prince of nowhere now. I've run from both the living and the dead, hunted by scavengers. Haunted by what I did to create this world. There is only the single instinct: Survive._

_And as I write this, I'm failing that, too._

_They're coming, and I am too weak to fight._

_If they catch me, worst of all, they will not kill me._

_They know what I can make._

_I'm not a person to them. I'm a resource._

. . .

“There has been a signal from the western villages.” Stubby, mutated fingers pressed against each other as the raspy voice came through the oxygen veil. Precious resource, but the Toad was worth it. The Toad never missed a Wastelander's trick, and he knew to be loyal to those that rewarded him. His mottled face pinched together, the flesh sliding against itself in folds and slumping weight as he regarded his liege. The new Immortan in the heart of the desert; the red king and his red skull, risen to take power in the vacuum when the old colonel was stupid enough to be torn apart by his own escaping slaves.

The Toad knew better than to stare at the mystery of his liege lord's ghoulish countenance, sliding his regard away again when Immortan Skull's glistening, foggy eyes turned to behold him. They could not bear the sun for long; nor could his raw flesh. Black leather and soft black cotton, and sometimes a veil to protect his face. “And?” came the deceptively smooth word, a trap on the lips of a practiced taskmaster. “Do you think you need to draw it out, Toad? Give me your information and go.”

“New devotees,” said Toad to the dusty yellow earth beneath his feet, no idiot. “Think to have a place. They want to see the _miracle._ ”

“The miracle is being reticent. He must be retrained soon; some new leash knotted around his throat to goad him. The drugs are fading. The pleasures are not far behind.” The lipless smile pulled back to reveal white-bone teeth and his voice became casual. In it were hints of a life before the apocalypse storms. “No big deal. He's mine.” A gloved hand flickered towards the sealed vault. “And he will always  _be_ mine _._ ”

The Toad bowed and scraped, feeling the first trace of fear. The more relaxed the red lord, the more dangerous he became. The  _miracle,_ that broken 'god,' was irritating him far more than he let on. “You will make him comply, my lord. He will remember who the real God is.”

The red skull laughed, no mirth in it.

. . .

On the other side of the vault door was another world; no dirt and sand left to pile in the corners. There was white stone and dozens of hardscrabble plants living as lushly as anything could in that dead land, and a few of these could grow pale flowers from time to time. They did not last long. A soft, hot breeze from the high windows – far too high to jump and survive the experience – and the petals scattered across the floor to become wilted ash. Patterns traced along these, the trails of wispy curtains dragging along the stone.

The broken god remembered such colors more vibrantly once, but perhaps that was only a dream. The scent of incense was heady in the air that day; too strong to be more than stirred by the breeze and under the incense was the taste of the bitter liquid they gave him to keep him weak. To keep him dreaming.

He lifted his heavy head slowly, to see the latest supplicants set close by his prone form. Two of them, one male, one female. They would not look at him. In the dream he remembered another face that belonged to him, but here, trapped by the narcotic cage, there was only the red eyes and the blue skin. He had no energy to be anything else. He lifted one hand to watch it lazily trail through the air, not sure why the sight of himself disturbed him so. He knew only that he disturbed  _them_ .

“The miracle,” whispered one of the fragile, too-pale humans at his side. “Please.”

He dropped his hand and opened his mouth to speak. Azure lips cracked in the dry air and he found he had no voice. He no longer anything to say to these creatures that were so frightened of him. Once he would have taken joy in their fear and shaped it into awe. Now there was only silence.

In the dreams he had a voice. In the dreams he could  _scream._

Under his palm, ice began to form and flow along the soft sheets he lay on. The humans gave a soft cry of surprise and delight, reaching out with shaking hands to trace fingertips across the startlingly lovely patterns of frost that began to stiffen the sheets of the bier the broken god laid upon. They would tell the Immortan later, he realized distantly. He had gained just a  _little_ strength back, and for that he would be made to freshen the pools anew. Ice from dead air; his gift, his curse. A scrap of salvation among radioactive sands, but for him only a set of manacles.

_You're more precious than guzzoline,_ laughed the skull in his dreams.  _You'll live like a prince at last. Isn't that what you really wanted? Someplace to belong, to be worshiped? I'll give you worshippers, and you'll give me power._

He felt his lips crack open once more, but still, nothing. His other hand lifted to touch the face of one of the humans.  _Save me,_ he wanted to say. Somewhere in the cold depths of him was an old fury, guttering out in the gathering dark. Years now, and no salvation. Not for him.

All the Gods were dead. Except him, and he was no longer a God. He was trapped elemental power alone. No wonder they couldn't look at him. He was a well, and they only there to cup a drink from what he could give.

Fear filling the young man's face, he leaned forward to kiss the broken god instead. Eyes closed. The man's lips were colder than his own. Below his waist, he felt the hands of the other one begin to touch and stroke him gently. They were afraid of him, but they did not stop. In the end, they were far more afraid of the red skull.

_No,_ he tried. But there was no piece of him strong enough to struggle. He gave in, instead.

There was no comfort in the pleasure, a mechanical reaction stuttering out from him at their hands, at their lips, at their thighs clenching around his hips. They did not love him. Nothing did, he thought.

That wasn't new.

Later, there were dreams.

. . .

_I'm sorry, he screams at the white fire falling from the sky, white fire chased down by countless shattering explosions._

_I didn't know!_

_I never wanted this!_

_In the dreams, he watches the stars fall from the sky to rest in the ocean, to scatter across the burning landscape and all he feels is horror. In the dreams, in the silence after the apocalypse storm, he sees their ghosts line up to judge them. Most of their faces he can bear, but there is one he never looks at._

_Instead he drops to his knees before the armored form. In the dream, Thor doesn't hold his hammer. Instead, in each hand, the broken shards of Gungnir. It's the only thing Loki can see, and by the way the golden wreckage shivers he knows he is judged and hated. He could never look up._

_“You did this,” whispers the shade of his brother. “Hel is come, and the world is remade in its image. We are trapped. You did this.”_

_The other shades echo the words._

_You did this._

_You did this._

 . . .

 _I did this!_ The scream was choked off as he almost managed to bolt upright. He half-shifted, feeling numb, feeling trapped. He clenched his fist and realized he was bound at the wrists by strips of metal and leather. He turned his head to the side and saw the face of one of the supplicants staring back at him. Brown eyes, one iris blasted blind by a life in the sands beyond the Skull's keep. The other eye filled with blood.

That's how he knew the man was dead. He managed a moan.

“No mewling,” whispered the skull. “It's time to put you under again.”

_No..._

The face of the new Immortan, horrible and raw and red, filtered into his view. The lipless grimace that was an eternal smile filled the world. “Are you ready to comply?”

_No! Oh please, no, let it end._

And later, _yes._ Weak and broken.

There was no other choice.

 

 


End file.
